


cannibals

by thefudge



Series: jake gyllenhaal doesn't need a hug [2]
Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Age Difference, Ageism, Celebrity culture, Competition, Kinda Dark, M/M, has an american psycho vibe if u squint, mentions of Heath Ledger, ost: dj harry - all my life, with dashes of toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 21:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: It’s not romance. It’s some kind of cannibalism. Each new generation can’t wait to consume the former. Jake/Tom





	cannibals

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post  
> https://thefudge.tumblr.com/post/185954760663/winston-wilson-weve-heard-so-much-about-this 
> 
> also this is (very messy) fiction! keep that in mind
> 
> (oh, some of the details here are from miscellaneous interviews/press junkets)

The kid is more confident than he ever was at his age.

He doesn’t need to swagger or adopt a brooding stance. He doesn’t have to be a mystery. Even when he’s acting childish, there’s a certain flair to it. He’s young and in the know-how. He doesn’t really need anything else, and he _knows_ he doesn’t. Jake envies that kind of effortless personable aura. He’s worked hard to cultivate it. He remembers the press junkets for the indie darlings of his early career, stuff like _Donnie Darko_ and _The Good Girl_. He was hopelessly gauche, trying to play nerdy and sweet, alternating with long stretches of tortured silence.

He didn’t find his footing until his early thirties, and even then it was a matter of self-editing.

Tom doesn’t really filter all that much. He doesn’t have to nip or tuck. He revels in his faux-pas. He thrives every time he stumbles. His mistakes are part of his charm, his un-American ease. Un-American yet bleeding red, white and blue, the poster boy for an alternate Fourth of July.

He can’t quite put his finger on it; this kid is the future but whenever he’s around him, Jake feels like there’s no future, and caring about it is ridiculous, anyway.

Maybe he should stop over-analyzing, should just keep smiling and hugging his co-star as delightedly as Tom is hugging him, boyish cologne and spearmint filling his nostrils. A clinical, frightening smell of power.

 _I’m tired of that word, bromance,_ Jake tells a reporter later, _let’s just call it like it is, straight-up romance._

But he’s still lying, still selling the idea of it, the fake frisson of something more, when really, his hairline is receding, he’s pushing forty, and this miniature person standing next to him glows with smug assurance, because he’s somehow mastered the secret of eternal youth.

It’s not romance. It’s some kind of cannibalism. Each new generation can’t wait to consume the former.

Tom grins for the camera. _Oh yeah, it’s full on love between me and Jake, we’re getting married. Where’s my husband?_

Haha, yeah, they’re married! That’s how much they _like_ each other, that’s how deep the game runs. Belonging to each other for now because one of them has to be the meal, one of them has to _go_.

Fuck, he’s starring in a kiddie Spider-Man movie and he's the father figure.

He’s the goddamn meal.

They tell the story for the interviews. How Jake walked up to him in a restaurant and told him he wanted to work with him, wanted to make a movie together. Like having a fucking baby. _My husband_. Inane little words.

Jake tells _Entertainment Weekly_ how his heart beat _so_ fast, almost _exploded_ , when he saw Tom across the room. He leans his arm against Tom’s shoulder, leans his whole weight. 

Tom’s jaw clenches even as he smiles. He shakes his head. “Wow. I was the one freaking out you were there.”

Jake deflects. 

Tom deflects.

“You were always my role model,” Tom insists, baring his teeth.

“You’ve _become_ mine,” Jake responds warmly.

Tom shakes his head again, like, _can you believe this guy?_

And then he does something really weird. He takes a bow. Rather, he kneels. As if to honor his childhood hero. A joke within a joke.

Jake looks down at the kid prostrated before him.

Tom rests his hands briefly on Jake’s knees. Eyes cool and clear, water falling off dark rocks, shit-eating grin, _I can do this all day_ kinda deal.

Jake loses his breath a little. He grabs him by the shoulder and hoists him up. Laughs forcefully.

The problem with this barely twenty-three year-old is that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He texts Maggie about feeling bloated on the red carpet.

 _Shut up, skank_ , _you look amazing_ , his sister texts him back with a lot of vomit emojis which kind of give him mixed signals.

Tom corners him backstage. They pat each other’s arm noncommittally.

“Should’ve dressed up like the Roxbury Guys again,” Tom comments lightly, eyeing him up and down. 

Jake laughs, touches his gut. At the time, dressing up like an SNL skit had felt clever. It had also been more comfortable.

He looks down at himself. Does the suit look dumb? What is the kid saying?

He shouldn't even care. It's just that, Tom's not even really that good looking, that's what irks him, he's just sort of pixie-beautiful.

It bothers him. 

Tom doesn’t wait for him to finish his thought. He reaches up boldly to adjust his tie.

“I think the knot’s too tight, that’s the problem.”

Jake blinks. “Ah, yeah, it’s been bothering me. I’d rather get rid of it.”

He feels somehow under pressure with the kid’s fingers at his throat.

“Get rid of it?” Tom asks, staring up at him.

“Yeah, you know…” And he reaches up with his own hand, trying not to brush against his, and tugs on the tie.

“Oh. That’s easily done.”

Tom has to apply a bit of force. He tugs and unravels the knot, slips the tie off him. The edge slaps him over the chin. 

“There, that should be better.”

His English nanny lilt sets Jake's teeth on edge.

He doesn’t feel much of a difference.

Tom pockets the tie.

“Mine now,” he says, jokingly, but his wink is anything but.

The kid’s nothing like Heath. Maybe just a hint of accent, a half-morsel of scrawny grace. But nothing and no one could ever capture the bottled effervescence of Heath.

Tom tries, though.

He takes off his shirt mid-motion. Fabric gets caught in his elbows. He stumbles as he unzips. He runs a hand through spiky locks.

Jake sets down his glass.

“You wanna head to the pool?” he asks, throat dry.

They went to the children’s hospital earlier in full comic book gear. Good deed done for the day. He still feels like shit, though. Maybe he shouldn’t have invited the kid to lunch at his place.

Tom laughs, buoyant and innocent and unashamed. “Nah, shouldn’t swim after you eat. I think I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind.”

So.

This display is for him. 

Jake smiles, tries to somehow regain his footing. Edit himself.

"Be my guest."

Tom keeps removing clothes.

The back-up spider suit is on the floor in a gym bag. Tom kicks it with his foot as he walks past.

He whistles as he saunters past the stairs into the darkness of the bedroom.

Jake swallows.

There's no one inside this young god, no living thing. Not yet, anyway. He hasn't lived enough to become mortal. 

If he goes in there, he’s going to get eaten alive.

 _That’s the idea_ , was what Heath used to say.

You can't really fight it. Eat or be eaten. 

It comes for you anyway. 

Jake smiles.

Hell, he can still muster an appetite. 

(they sit on uncomfortable chairs and do Wired auto-complete interviews and ask each other twenty glib questions, and they speculate about working together on a _serious_ drama because they both have the chops for it, and Jake's hand is on the back of Tom's chair, and all Jake can think about is that gymnast dexterity, the way Tom arched under him just a few nights ago, indifferently showing off his ballerina training, muscles cording with pity and lust for the man who can't keep up, who bites his shoulder to slow him down, almost like saying goodbye every time, and all Tom can think is _I think I've had my fill_.)


End file.
